Confession
by Harriet Vane
Summary: Doyle grappels with God after the events discriped in "Hero"


Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately, because if they were Doyle would still be around. But the story is mine, distinctly so, I would say, and unlike most stories, I would indeed be offended if you didn't give me credit. T'anks

Theologians Note: the story of Gideon can be found in the Book of Judges, chapter 7

Historians Note: This story happens shortly after the events discussed in "Hero"

Confession

Doyle wasn't quite brave enough to pray, he wasn't even brave enough to kneel. He just sat on the pew and looked at the giant crucifix and wondered if Jesus Christ was God, or if he was just a really, really smart guy. He wondered if there was a God at all, if there was good at all. And if there was, what he had to do with it. He had so many questions and so few answers.

He chuckled humorlessly to himself, Harry, she had had all the answers, at least some of them, and she had left. What did that say?

So he was alone, staring at the crucifix, a very small thing in a world that seemed entirely too big. He could feel himself fade into the darkness that he had always known existed. It frightened him, but he couldn't even conceive having the strength to fight it. 

"Peace be with you," A very soft, very kind voice said beside him.

Doyle jerked around and looked at the priest standing next to him. He was older, probably in his mid sixties and very jolly looking. A Friar Tuck sort of man. His hands were ruddy, strong, and his eyes had smile-wrinkles at their corners. He was obviously used to hard work, he would have to be considering the neighborhood the church was in. Old white men, especially religious ones, usually don't thrive in the heart of the slums, but Doyle saw a strength and a wisdom written on the priest's eyes that set him apart from, well, everybody Doyle had ever met before.

"And also with you," Doyle stuttered softly. 

"May I sit?" The priest said, motioning to the space next to Doyle.

"'S your church," Doyle said, turning and looking at the ground.

"The church belongs to God," the priest said, in a very predictably priestly matter, "and he has given it to all of us. It is as much mine as it is yours."

Doyle let of one, sad, laugh, and looked away.

"You think that Christ did not die for you."

Doyle didn't answer.

"You know he died for all of creation."

"Yeah, I've heard tha'," he said softly.

"Even for demons."

Doyle's head snapped up as he stared at the priest, trying to figure out what exactly the priest was saying. " 'scuse me?"

"That's why you're here, isn't it?" The priest asked. "To try and understand how you fit into everything, are you good or are you evil."

"Uh," Doyle stuttered, "yeah, pretty much."

"Why don't you tell me your story?" The priest asked, putting his fatherly hand on the young man's shoulder. "Especially the parts you wouldn't dream of telling a priest," he smiled wisely. "That's usually the most important parts."

"Should we go into a confessional or anythin'?" Doyle asked nervously, a priest had never been so candid or insightful with him before.

"If it would make you feel more comfortable," the priest chuckled. "But I've seen you, and you've seen me, the church is empty, so I'm not sure I know what the point would be."

"Right," Doyle said, looking away.

"Would that make you more comfortable?"

"No," he would be equally uncomfortable anywhere. "This is fine. But," he licked his lips, he didn't feel at all comfortable demanding things from priests. "But before we start, I need to know exactly . . . what . . . you know." It was more of a plea than a demand.

"Of course," the priest said. "I know that there is a whole world most people don't know about. I know that demons are real, just as the Bible says, but they are not what most people assume they are. They are corporal, physical, and everywhere," He smiled. "But I don't think I need to tell you that."

"Actually," Doyle said honestly. "You did. I wouldn' told you a thing if ya hadn'"

"So now you know it's safe to start telling," The priest prompted. 

"I'm . . . half . . . demon," Doyle started shakily. He glanced up at the priest, he didn't react, he just sat listening. Doyle felt a little better and continued, keeping steady eye contact with his hands, only occasionally daring to break it so he could glance up and look at the priest, who was always looking down with concern and compassion. "I, ah, never met my da. Mum always said he was dead, died at sea before I was born. She would never say anythin' else, no matter how many times I asked. An we moved around alo', you know. Stayed wi'h a aunt here, a cousin there, anyone who'd take us in. Partially because my mum was just a little crazy, and could never keep a job for very long, and partially because every time I got into any kind'a trouble, fights, bad grades, kid stuff, she'd up'an move. I never quite got why, I always assumed that she was ashamed a me, and now, in retrospect, I guess she was. She was afraid of the demon in me, she didn't want it to show through. An', maybe, that saved me. Maybe my demon part would'a come out long before if I hadn't been so afraid of bein' bad. As it was, I ended up educatin' myself mostly. An' then I got into Oxford an' ah, never looked back. I met my wife there. We were so in love. I followed her 'ere, to Los Angeles, started teachin' in one of those inner city catholic schools, where they keep tryin' to teach kids not to be gang members with the use of positive male role models."

"Admirable," The priest said, impressed.

"Yeah, I was saint," Doyle grumbled. "Until I woke up on my twenty-first birthday, sneezed and discovered . . ."

"Your demon side."

"I didn't know what happened, all I knew was that Harry was screaming bloody murder. Finally I caught my reflection in a glass, it scared me so much. I spent an hour lookin' at it. Then I spent about three month's wishing I hadn't. Harry finally called m'mum and got the whole story, not that it helped any. All I wanted to do is disappear, and I have to say, I was well on my way to succeeding. I dropped my job, chased my wife, along with any friends I had, away. I slipped into the underworld of the city where I could expect a nice short life."

"But it looks to me like you're trying to crawl out of it now."

Doyle blinked, he started to wish that they were in a confessional, at least then the priest would not be able to see him cry. "A couple a days ago this one demon, ah, Brachen demon like me, named Lucus, He came to ask fer my help in gettin' him an his family out a L.A. Seems this odder group of demons, called em the scourge, were trying to kill 'em."

"I've heard of them," the priest said kindly. "What happened?"

"I didn't help 'em, I didn't even try. They all died."

The priest waited for Doyle to say something, after a very long time, he did.

"I don't think I'd'a known about it, except, I . . . I . . . ah, I saw it."

"You were there?"

"No, I was at home, but I still saw it. I thought I was havin' a stroke, it hurt so much."

"What did you see?"

"Them. Dead," Doyle said, his voice raw with sorrow. "I da know how, bu' I saw it an' it happened. I found their bodies and . . ."

"It wasn't your fault." The priest said, compassionately.

"Right," Doyle nodded, takeing deep breaths, "'Course not, I didn't kill 'em, I just refused to help. So instead of being evil in intent I was evil without it. Great, wonderful, people died, or . . demons died. And I sat there, not carin' . . ."

"What kind of faith did you have before all this happened, before you even knew you were part demon?"

"I'da'know," Doyle said softly. "Enough to attend mass every Sunday."

"How much do you have now?"

"Infinitely more," Doyle said, "And maybe infinitely less."

The priest nodded. "Believe it or not, I understand."

"You do?" Doyle asked.

"I won't presume to have experienced anything close to what you have. But when I first discovered the true nature of the world we live in I questioned everything, Jesus, God, _myself_. Finally I realized that I am not a different person, only my knowledge is different."

"It's easy for you to say. You didn't change, I did."

"No, child," the priest said, putting his hand on Doyle's shoulder. "You are the same creature you have always been."

"Creature?"

"Person, my apologies." He chuckled.

"This isn't easy, I don't know who I am, even what I am!"

"You're what you were before."

"I don't know what that is!"

"Maybe you should ask some questions," the priest suggested.

"Yeah," Doyle said, nodding. "Alright, here's one. Do I have a soul?"

"You came to a church for answers. That's an answer in itself."

"You're saying I do?"

"In my experience, creatures without souls don't want to think about them. They hate church, and God, because they remind the soulless of what they do not have."

"So I have a soul," Doyle said, "Is that good or is that bad?"

"Well," the priest chuckled, "I would say good."

"I helped kill a group of innocent demons," his throat was dry, "There were kids there. This little girl with pig tails and this cute little stuffed puppy that she was clinging to when they killed her. And then Lucas, he had this look on his face, like . . ." His voice trailed off.

"You know he forgives you," the priest said, motioning towards the crucifix.

"Does he?"

"Yes he does."

"He has the power ta?"

"You know I'll say yes."

"Right," Doyle smiled sadly, "Stupid question to ask."

"Do you have another question?"

"How did I . . . _see_ it?"

"Grace of God?"

"Grace! Tha's not the word I'd use."

"Grace isn't painless."

"I . . . I don't understand," he stuttered.

"You are forgiven, God in his infinite grace, has decided to give you a chance for atonement."

"Atonement?"

"Redemption."

"I know what the word means, bu' . . . Why?"

"Do you know the story of Gideon?"

"The guy with the fleece and the dew?"

"Yes, but more importantly, how he defeated Midian."

"You mean with the ram's horns and the cracked pots?"

The Priest chuckled, "I've never heard it that way before, but yes. As you know, he confused his enemies in the valley by standing in the mountains and braking clay pots, exposing the fire within."

"Yeah, I know," Doyle said uncertainly, "bu' what's that go' to do wit' me?"

The Priest smiled almost ruefully, "The point is, God can work miracles with broken vessels."

"So I had to be broken before I was useful," Doyle said, feeling oddly better.

"Let the world see your inner fire, that is generally the idea. Let me ask you this, if you had not seen what you did, would you be willing to fight?"

"Fight," Doyle said, his eyes doubling in size. "I'm not a fighter."

"Neither was Gideon. There are a thousand ways to fight, being a messenger is a valid one."

"Messenger," Doyle said softly. "Messenger to who, of what?"

The priest laughed, "That is not in my knowledge, you'll have to go to someone else for that."

"Who?"

The priest reached into the depths of his robes and pulled out a card, which he handed to the young, half demon. "Go to them, they will show you the path you should take."

Doyle looked at the card, "I don't think a priest has ever referred me to a Chinese mystic before."

"There is only one force of good in the world, and a thousand forces of evil."

"The good is stronger," Doyle asked, frightened, "right?"

"Of course, son. All you have to do is look at one flower to discover that," the priest stood up and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Does the world make more sense?"

"Yeah," Doyle said, taking a deep breath. "Thanks."

"Will you be alright?"

"I, ah," he nodded, "I think so." He paused, "If, ah, if you don't mind, father, I think, I, ah, need some time alone." He glanced at the crucifix. "I got a lot to think abou'."

"Of course, son." The priest said. "God bless you."

"Thank you Father," Doyle said softly. 

The priest smiled, then walked away. Doyle watched him walk away for a minute before his eyes started to mist. He took a deep breath before kicking the kneeler down, collapsing on it and praying with a reverence that he had never possessed before.

  
  


The End


End file.
